


This Life Such As I

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 513</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Life Such As I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ in 2010

**“We’re all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins for life.”** _Val_ in _Orpheus Descending,_ T.Williams  
   
When he woke from another restless sleep, Brian realized two things. He ached and he was alone. He was also fairly intelligent to connect the dots and solve the equation. He ached _because_ he was alone—the cause and effect were intrinsically linked.  
  
Every muscle throbbed as he gingerly sat up, shivering from a lack of heat for the third day in a row. How the fuck was it possible to land a man on the moon without the ability to fix his heating problem in the loft? A string of profanity spewed from his chattering lips in a determined attempt to send his landlord to a frozen tundra of hell. Yeah, he could have gone to a hotel, but for some reason...  
  
He always knew being a big, bad, bah-humbug would come in handy and now he had proof. What if, in an alternate universe, he had yielded to pleading blue eyes and ~~they~~ he had planned a lavish holiday party? What if ~~they~~ he had decorated the loft with flickering candlelight, gingerbread and freshly cut pine? What if ~~they~~ he had invited friends to fill the space with the rare sound of laughter as Nat King Cole sang about roasting his fucking chestnuts? What if _he had been truly happy?_ His 'what ifs' would be shot to hell now, thanks to his landlord and his fucking plumbing. So much for fucking celebrating. So much for fucking everything.  
  
He wrapped a sheet around his body for warmth and shuffled toward the sofa, unaware that his movements eerily mirrored another’s from years before. With the fabric pulled tight, he paused at the window. Hypnotized by the rhythmic pings of sleet, he glided his hand across a frosty pane and transformed the icy pellets into jagged shards of memories that stung his eyes with their reflections—an ivory face pressed against shower glass, artist fingers scrabbling on slick tile, pale skin flushed with heat.  
  
He scrunched his eyes and exhaled a leaden sigh. Would he ever get used to the pain, to the emptiness? He gave an annoyed shake of his head and cursed. No! He was not going to do this. He wasn't going to become a lovesick fag pining over a lost love. No fucking way _._  
  
**Moving on is not just seeing the new; it is also leaving behind. But the place you have left forever is always there for you to see whenever you shut your eyes.** _ _J.Myrdal_ _


End file.
